Like Recognizes Like
by VoiDreamer
Summary: Mary Watson knows all about being more than what she appears, and she suspects Molly Hooper does too. But how does one go about questioning a woman smarter than the Holmes brothers when she's done such a good job of fooling them all? A little musing on an AU with Genius!Molly (mentions of Molly/Sherlock)
1. Mary - Like Recognizes Like

AN: I've been busy moving cities, so my big stories have been temporarily lost in the shuffle. That being said, I've put together a little something for fun.

I've always loved the idea (my own little conspiracy theory) that Molly Hooper is actually a genius. Not just a "smarter-than-Sherlock" type of genius, but a smarter-than-Mycroft level of savant. A lot of the play between Sherlock and Mycroft has to do with the fact that Mycroft, the smarter of the two, seems to also be the more socially adjusted one. I always wondered what that would mean for Molly, who is by all accounts the most 'normal' of the cast.

This fic is a little musing on that premise. I think I will always adore 'normal' Molly from the show, but I couldn't help but explore this idea a little further.

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock nor am I making a profit from this work.

* * *

"You're just like him, aren't you?"

It was a quiet afternoon at the Watson residence; at least, it was until Mary decided she couldn't quite let the topic go unnoticed any longer.

"Sorry?"

Mary watched as Molly blink owlishly in the face of her comment, her accusation. Cup paused half way between lap and mouth, there was only a split-second pause before it was lowered, lips quirking into an embarrassed grin.

"Who am I like?"

The query was followed by an awkward laugh, a self-conscious tug on her jumper. Molly was forever trying to fade into the background. A white coat at work, Mary could understand, but even now Molly seemed determined to avoid attention. There was no missing the fact that her jumper matched the paper of the Watson's living room. Molly had even worn yellow to the Watsons' wedding when the venue itself had been decorated in the same sunny shade.

It seemed so strangely convenient now, the visual cues.

Molly was shy, but Mary was beginning to suspect there was a deeper reason to it.

"You," Mary leaned forward and smiled as she refilled the younger woman's cup, "You're the top of the pack aren't you? Smarter than them…than Sherlock and his clever brother."

It's a thought that's been percolating in the back of Mary's mind since the first time she had been introduced to the mousy pathologist.

As someone who knew all about hiding in plain sight it had figured that like would recognize like.

Molly didn't seem to share her insight.

"Me?"

Pointing to herself, Molly made an absurd noise in the back of her throat, "I _wish _I were cleverer. But even I don't think I can aspire to be like Sherlock."

Mary laughed, "I don't think anyone _aspires _to be like Sherlock. But he _is _smart."

She gave her companion a pointed glance, at which point she was rewarded with a nod in agreement.

"But there are different kinds of clever, aren't there?" It was a leading question; one Mary hoped Molly would expand on if given the chance. Even if she was as intelligent as Mary suspected it didn't mean she was foolhardy in her responses either.

Glancing down at her cup, Molly set it on the table with a mournful sigh, "You mean like Irene Adler? _She_ was clever."

Mary had read her husband's blog, had also pumped Sherlock for information about all the cases that John had artfully sidestepped. Irene Adler had come the closest to challenging Sherlock and his brother. Jim Moriarty had been credited with a portion of her success, but the fact remained that she had nearly done what others couldn't begin to imagine.

But there was one crucial difference between Irene Adler and Molly Hooper.

"She was a performer. She thrived on attention."

And this time, Molly did step into her carefully laid trap.

"Well you know what they say." Molly shrugged, "That's the problem with geniuses; they all need an audience. They need the attention."

Mary smiled. If Sherlock needed the attention of the common man, what did it say about Molly that the only audience she craved was a genius of considerable ability? It wasn't just for romance either. The last man who had really given her attention had been said-genius' sworn enemy.

Had Jim Moriarty seen into the depths in those bright eyes, past that innocent façade?

It was an intriguing thought. But then, Molly acted so very normal.

Mary had to admit that her suspicions about Molly could just as well be the result of a mind too long dedicated to looking for conspiracies.

"You're not a performer, Molly?"

With Sherlock it was easy to see when he was trying to act normal. Mary herself had seen herself how much effort it took for him to act like the rest of them, to have the same considerations, social awareness.

His brother seemed to be the better adjusted one, but given that he was hardly around anyone Mary had chalked that up to his own brand of effort.

"A performer?" Molly smiled shyly, "I'm nothing special."

Molly seemed to willingly and successfully integrate herself into the everyday. A casual observer would never have considered her odd, and even a studied eye would be hard pressed to note any glaring differences.

If she was correct, Mary couldn't begin to image the level of control and mental ability that went into masking an intellect of such significance. She seemed capable of swimming with intellectual sharks and coming away from the experience completely unscathed. John had nearly been burned alive for his friendship with Sherlock, and Mary herself had been blackmailed.

Mary watched Molly putter around the kitchen, "They all passed within inches of you so how did they miss it?"

It was possible she would never have her answer. But as they spend the afternoon together Mary enjoyed the company regardless.

And perhaps it wasn't so much that like recognized like, perhaps it was that Mary had found a friend in a most unexpected place.

Stranger things had happened after all.

Molly smiled several hours later, "I'm glad we did this Mary, I think I should be going. Wouldn't want to overdo it, right?"

"Hmm?"

"Resting. You and the baby?" Molly gestured to Mary's gravid belly, well on its way through the eighth month.

"Oh, this." Mary chuckled, "It'll be two more weeks before we've got to worry."

Molly wrung her hands, "If you say so. Still, I think I'd best go. Do you mind if I use the loo before I go?"

Mary gestured towards the hallway, "By all means."

Five minutes later, having bid Molly goodbye, Mary found herself alone and free to immerse in her thoughts. Resting in her sitting room, curled up beneath a warm quilt, her questions seemed to swell like an ocean wave. It was always hard to parse through a conversation objectively when she was so very interested in its outcome.

It was a professional failing that had cost her the life she had left behind.

Questions swelling, battering against the inside of her mind, they were interrupted by a crash of reality as the seat beneath her went suddenly very damp.

Her water had broken. Two weeks early.

"Oh my goodness."

There was a rush of panic followed quickly by the tense drive to get things done. Swiftly getting to her feet, Mary retrieved the cordless and dialed for John. Walking into their bedroom while she listened to the phone ring, she retrieved the bag they had prepared and set it beside the entryway.

Busy signal.

Glancing at it in disappointment, Mary debated calling Sherlock before deciding a text would have to do. She had other calls to make, an ambulance to request.

But no sooner had she gotten off the phone when her front door opened and John strode in, his face lined with concern. Behind him was a team of emergency personnel.

Mary didn't have to glance at her watch to know less than a minute had passed since she had contacted emergency services. Sherlock had said the average response to such a call would have taken at least seven minutes.

Someone else had called John and this ambulance.

It could only have been one person.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she looked up from her watch to where John and the Emergency crew were walking through the door.

"Like recognizes like."

_You're just like him, aren't you?_

Mary had spent an hour questioning the young woman and not once had she received an answer.

Laughing softly, Mary shook her head. "Well played Molly Hooper."


	2. Lestrade - Helpful Hints

AN: I had a wonderful amount of support for the first chapter so I thought I would expand this a bit. It was actually meant to be a one-shot, but I forgot to set it as 'Complete'...ah well, now I have an excuse to do some more writing.

As per the many requests here is another little look into the marvelous mind and subtly of Genius Molly. I was hoping to write from John Watson's perspective but couldn't quite get a perspective/plot that I liked. Ah well. Maybe next time.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think :)

Cheers,

Voi

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade considers himself a smart man. Not a genius, but smart. Most cases he can solve on his own and if not, well, he's not too proud to ask for help. Years of experience have taught him who to rely on in a pinch.

And it's not Sherlock Holmes.

Well, sometimes it is. But only _some _times.

Other times…_most _times, it's the writer of these mysterious cards.

Looking at the bottom of the most recent card, at the familiar initials that are embossed into the stiff cardstock, Lestrade shakes his head.

He's been getting these little white cards for years, since he made inspector actually. Small, unobtrusive things, they had shown up the first time he had found himself struggling with a case. They had pointed him in the right direction.

The first time it had unnerved him, that these cards, this mysterious person, had seemed so knowledgeable of each crime. But now, years later, the appearance of the white stock rectangles were almost comforting.

Of course, he still dutifully submitted each card in with the evidence and waited for the lab results to come back. They always came up negative for any trace of identifiable material (as they had for the past several years) but Lestrade was as committed to the proper process of things as he was smart.

But something had changed not so long ago, and for once Inspector Lestrade found himself privy to one of the universes most intriguing secrets.

He learned the identity of the mysterious benefactor, the brain behind the cardstock and initials.

M.H.

It had been not more than a year ago when he had found out.

An early morning case of robbery-gone-wrong had meant Lestrade had arrived at St. Bart's to find it nearly deserted. The card was the last of the evidence that needed collecting and while he had been on his way out he had spotted a familiar face.

Light glinting off her name tag, Dr. Hooper, _Molly_ Hooper, had seemed to be in good spirits despite the hour.

"Morning, Molly, here already?"

Coffee in hand, he had had more than enough time to wake up. She, sans coffee, seemed equally perky.

Sunny and optimistic even when she was on her way to examine yet another corpse, she smiled.

"Yes, it's been a bit of a busy one. Strange, but I've seen stranger. " She eyed the card in the bag curiously, "What's that? Love note?"

"Hmm, oh this?" He laughed extending the card with a flourish, "Hardly, more like a clue card. It's been massively helpful this time."

"Oh well that sounds nice. " Molly chirped as she bent closer to inspect it, "You never know where help will come from. Though there are some obvious choices."

"Indeed." Lestrade nodded, but paused mid-gesture as he saw another familiar figure at the end of the hallway. It seemed this morning in particular was packed with familiar faces.

"Say Molly, over there – that's Sherlock's brother isn't it?"

Molly glanced over then smiled albeit nervously, "Yes, his _older_ brother. He comes in from time to time."

"Do you know what his name is?" Lestrade asked curiously, "I've seen him a few times around the city but we've never been formally introduced.

His companion nodded in sympathy, "Well, he's not nearly as chatty as Sherlock, but he goes by Mycroft Holmes."

"Hmm…Mycroft."

Nodding slowly, Lestrade eyed the initials again.

Mycroft Holmes.

M.H.

"He's as smart as Sherlock, isn't he?"

The mousy pathologist smiled bright enough to match her yellow jumper, "I think he may be smarter…though I don't think you want to say that with Sherlock around."

"And he's good…solving crimes and things."

"I've never seen him at a crime scene. More your department isn't it?" Molly asked, "But then, chances are he'd be at least as good as Sherlock."

"Yeah..."

Lestrade nodded absently as the pieces began to fit together. Waving goodbye to Molly, he had made it nearly down the hall when the eldest Holmes turned and left. The silence brought the final moment of clarity.

It all made sense now. Sort of.

He had always wondered at them, those initials.

Now he knew.

After all – who else could it be?

M.H.

He really should have said something. He had received years of help, so a simple 'thank you' was almost too little. But what exactly did one say to the man who single handedly helped capture countless criminals and all with less pomp and circumstance than his younger brother.

How did one thank a genius so subtle that their names remained a mystery even to those who relied on them most?

He wasn't sure he could quite make the connection: the cordial and almost cheeky M.H. with the man Sherlock Holmes only grudgingly called his brother. Wasn't he supposed to be cold and impersonal?

But then, everyone had their secrets didn't they?

Lestrade could do with having one more than Sherlock Holmes.

M.H.

Who would have thought Mycroft could be so helpful?


	3. Sherlock - Not a Secret

AN: I had wanted to write for John but with inspiration just not coming I thought I'd do a quick pass at Sherlock. It's short but I think it suits.

If anyone has suggestions for other chapters please feel free to shoot me a piece of mail, otherwise I may consider this little snippet complete. Goodness knew I meant it only to be a one-shot :)

Thanks to everyone for their support (or honest dislike), it means a lot that you took the time to comment!

Cheers,

Voi

* * *

It hadn't been a secret, so it baffled him why it seemed to surprise everyone.

They even had the gall to sound upset that he hadn't mentioned it before, though in this he figured they were just being absurd.

What did it matter that Molly Hooper was genius when she had so many other talents to recommend her?

"Yes of course Molly Hooper is a genius. She always has been, and likely always will be."

He repeated it for the third time, feeling (not for the first time) like he was trying to communicate with a patch of turnips rather than the decently-intelligent people he knew they were.

"I don't understand why this is news." Brow furrowed he tried valiantly to understand John's surprise, "Surely you could tell she was intelligent."

"There is a difference, Sherlock, between _smart _and being smarter than _you_."

On some level Sherlock could appreciate the frustration, if just because it stroked his ego to know his best friend found it impossible to believe anyone could rival his intelligence. But in the grand scheme of things, what did it matter?

She was still the same pleasantly helpful pathologist who had always made working at Bart's his preferred place of research.

"Why didn't you mention it sooner? You mentioned everything else about her!"

Sherlock blinked at the accusation. He hadn't considered how his words were viewed by his friends, but he liked to think he was always deliberate with his comments.

He decided to raise the issue several hours later when he and Molly were on their way to their usual chip shop (should he have mentioned this weekly tradition as well?).

Walking in companionable silence, him at a slower pace to allow for her shorter legs, they made a handsome couple. But Sherlock was not interested in the admiring gazes of the other women so much as asking _his _particular female companion about the dressing down he had received.

Two blocks away from the chip shop he finally turned to her and asked.

"They didn't know about you."

He stopped walking as he asked, drawing Molly to a stop as well.

"Why did they not know?"

It was such a simple question, but Sherlock wondered if maybe it wasn't _too _simple.

"It wasn't a secret. Was it?" Frown deepening in confusion, Sherlock sighed, large hands carding through his curling mass of hair.

"No, it wasn't a secret."

Smiling tenderly as her smaller hands gently brushed the curls away from his brow, Molly gave him that quiet look that made him press just slightly further.

"So then, why?"

Molly shrugged as a small grin fluttered over her features, "Perhaps because they see, but do not observe."

It had been a phrase he had picked up from her many years ago, but it had been a while since she herself had used it. Its appearance now was enough to make him snort in amusement.

"Typical."

Shaking his head, Sherlock paused a moment more before extending his hand and gently taking her own. Fingers lacing together with familiarity, they made their way towards the chip shop once more. And just before they crossed the street Sherlock glanced at her with one last smile, eyes glittering with humor as he matched her own private smile.

"As if you could be anything less than genius."


End file.
